


Free Haunted Chair

by Hexes



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Body Horror, Bossy Peter, Crack Treated Seriously, Frottage, Greek Mythology References, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Pushy Peter Parker, References to Suicide, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 12:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14694633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexes/pseuds/Hexes
Summary: Peter takes home a free haunted recliner. Turns out Deadpool's been missing the last while because he was haunting the recliner. Sort of.P.s: Graphic description of regeneration. It's goopy.Un-beta'd





	Free Haunted Chair

    Peter's not a _cheapskate._

    He's  _frugal._

    And his apartment is damnably under-furnished. And the brown leather recliner sitting out on a random lawn on his way from class is free _._ The sign haphazardly taped to it, proclaiming “FREE HAUNTED CHAIR - ghost included (we hope)” doesn't deter him. He doesn't believe in ghosts. He lives in New York, and has therefore seen some mind-bending shit - alien invasions, anyone? He's been  _involved_ in some weird shit - seriously, who turns people into dinosaurs for the hell of it? The various iterations of oddity and horror have led him to believe that ghosts are, in technical terms, bullshit. Besides. It's free. Free things taste better, smell better, and are generally more comfortable and satisfying than things one has to actually purchase.

    So, Peter avails himself of the free haunted chair, taking extra care to look burdened by his new acquisition as he squirrels it back to his complex. He makes sure to grumble peevishly as he schlepps it up the decrepit stairs to his tiny little apartment, with its one dividing wall. The chair blends in nicely with the hodgepodge of scavenged decór and furniture scattered about the place.

    He sets the free haunted recliner in the corner by the partition with a good view of the telly, just offset from the awkwardly-assembled Ikea couch that he scored off of Craigslist (sans instructions). He artfully arranges a throw blanket on it, and a flip sequin pillow that he purloined from the one frat party he attended his first year at university.

    He stands back, admiring his handiwork. Perhaps the red and black sequin pillow clashes a bit with the brown leather, but he comforts himself with the knowledge that no one's ever actually accused him of being an interior designer. He fiddles with the blanket a bit, trying to better cover the burnishing on the leather that was left by the previous owner. Peter nods curtly to himself: A job well done. He goes off to the kitchen to throw together some grub while he calls Aunt May, and promptly winds up too busy to think.

    To be honest, he kind of forgets about the sign that was on the chair. The thing didn’t randomly kick out its footrest, or meander from its position. It didn’t start talking when he walked by, or shriek in the night. He doesn’t even use it: He’d brought it back to make the apartment look homier, make the place a little more inviting.

    Between classes, work, failing miserably at having a relationship, and the increased workload as Spider-man he hasn’t been home enough to really look at the way the burnishing keeps changing, let alone dwell on it. If he’d been scrutinizing the thing, he may have noticed that the wear looked more human-shaped than it used to. The way the staining on the headrest is pulling in on itself, the dappled discolouration curling into the shape of a skull. If he’d been using his apartment for anything other than occasionally passing out on the poorly-assembled Ikea couch between bouts of falling asleep on the floor, too tired to make it to the bed, he may have noticed that the chair sometimes groaned.

    But he hasn’t been home. He’s too damn busy. May needs help around the house. The barista at his usual cafe turned down his advances, and he’s had to change shops. JJJ is, as ever, drowning in the milk of human kindness. The library on campus is open twenty-four hours a day. The semester is drawing to a close. The warm weather seems to be stirring all sorts of pots, and Deadpool is off god-knows-where, doing god-knows-what, and hasn’t been around to back him up in weeks. He's mildly impressed with his ability to find time to breathe, frankly.

 

    Peter drags himself in through his window, exhausted from a long day of school, dodging awkward encounters, and fighting crime. He’s not sure when the last time it was that he got more than a couple hours of sleep snatched out of the hands of Morpheus on some random couch on campus, or in his old room at Aunt May’s. He just manages to pull off his mask and gloves before falling over into an unceremonious heap on his bed.

    He wakes around three in the morning. There’s someone breathing. He jerks upright, eyes sticky with sleep, looking around wildly. He can’t sense any danger, but he’s utterly certain that he didn’t bring anyone home, and he’s just as sure that someone is in his apartment. He stumbles out of bed, tangled in the sheets that he’d attempted to burrow under in his sleep. He flops out from behind the divider that separates the “bedroom” from the “living room”. The television is off, the couch is empty, the kitchen is dark. The breathing is still in the apartment. He turns around to face the recliner.

    There’s a body sitting in it, barely illuminated by the light pollution leaking in through the window.

    A wet, glistening body. Raw protoplasm slowly connecting itself into discernable muscles, the bones of the ribs and over the heart still look soft as fascia attaches to the sternum, the heart shuddering as it beats slow and soft. The lungs flutter as wet, sucking breaths are drawn.

    The blood drains from Peter's face. His stomach roils threateningly, revolting against the muculent sounds of reassembling flesh. The body on the recliner spasms, the slick meat growing skin to protect itself. Peter faints.

    Wade wakes slowly. It had been some time since he last had a regeneration so shitty. On one hand, the time he got with Death was more than he usually did. On the other hand, he’s pretty sure that was not what Shiklah had in mind when she vapourised him. He blinks a few times, trying to get his still regenerating eyes to work properly. He has no idea where he is. He doesn’t recognize this house, though he’s pretty sure this is his favourite suicide chair. He shifts. There’s a blanket. And a very scratchy pillow. Neither of which he would have ever placed there himself. Which is weird, but he wouldn’t put it past one of his “friends” having put them there so they didn’t have to look at his viscera so closely.

    Only. He doesn’t live with anyone anymore. And no one has his address. And this isn’t his safehouse anyway. He squints around, spots the crumpled heap of humanity on the floor off to the side. The crumpled heap of humanity that’s wearing what is unmistakably a Spider-man suit. But missing the mask. And very much not awake. He groans as he stands, breaking in his muscles again. It was always a pain in the literally everything when he had to come back from such tiny pieces.

    Wade walks over to the mostly still figure, checking to make sure it’s still breathing. He sighs and crouches down to gently prod the person. There’s a vague twitch. He rolls them onto their back, looking at their face. He squints. Holds his hand to cover half of the face.

    “Fuck.” Wade drops back onto his ass, utterly bewildered. “Shit.”

    [Well, isn’t this something.] White pipes up, apparently back online.

    {A really weird something, at that.} Yellow responds, seemingly back in the game as well.

    He reaches out tentatively - he’s not sure he really wants to wake up his little spider. The boy probably doesn’t want to see him naked, but Wade’s also not sure that Spidey’s not suffering from some weird side-effect brought on by a crazed animal-themed villain. He takes a deep breath, and taps at a red-clad shoulder.

    “Baby boy,” he mumbles, unsure if he wants him to wake up, or stay unconscious so that he can call in the cavalry and ditch this place. Wade wraps his hand around the shoulder, shaking gently. “Baby boy, you with me?” He’s answered by a groan and fluttering eyelids. He jerks his hand back, getting ready to flee. Not sure where - or how, given that he’s naked - but he doesn’t want to cause another fainting spell with his scarred and already weeping flesh.

    He doesn’t get the chance.

    In the moment it takes him to begin considering an escape, Spidey is wide awake, sitting up, and gasping. His eyes are wide - so brilliant in the half-light they seem to be glowing.

    “What the fuck?!” Peter’s not quite shouting, but he’s definitely not being quiet. Wade’s freshly revivified ears ache in protest. Peter’s hands fly to his face, taking in the lack of obstruction, his bare fingers meeting the gentle rasp of stubble. He rolls up to his knees, looking slightly unhinged. “What the _fucking_ fuck?!” He’s vibrating on the spot, seemingly unable to decide what to do. He springs up, sticking to the little dividing wall, and staring at Wade incredulously. Wade sighs again. There goes any hope of this being a case of “hilariously” mistaken identity. Peter’s breathing is erratic, his hands and feet glued to the wall like it’ll magically anchor him into some reality where Wade Wilson isn’t sitting in his apartment, naked, after apparently respawning out of a fucking _chair_.

    “Wade?” He breathes, incredulous.

    “The very same across the multi-verse, babycakes.” Wade responds, still trying to cobble together an idea of what the shit is happening.

    “You…” Peter unsticks himself from the wall, standing with his back to it, blinking rapidly. “You,” he tries again. “What?” Wade can relate. It’s a damn good question.

    “Well. Last I knew I was having a… disagreement… with my ex-wife, and then - poof!” He makes the sign for ‘teleport’ in ASL, “here I am.” He shifts around on the floor, trying to hide himself from Spidey’s incredibly intense gaze.

    “You’re the recliner haunter?” His voice is faint. He's not precisely sure how long it usually takes Wade to crawl back out of the land of the dead, but he's relatively sure that it doesn't generally take weeks. He seems to recall one instance where it took the better part of a night, but the fall had been from nearly forty storeys up. He blinks again.

    “I don’t know about _that,_ but I’m pretty sure Shiklah vapourised me as a way to end the discussion, and it takes a **lot** to come back from that. You know how many atoms I had to pull back together? No fucking fun, I assure you. Don’t get vapourised, take it on my authority: Deadpool disapproved.” Wade’s pretty sure that’s what happened, anyway. He ekes back toward his most recent final resting place, intent on making use of the throw to cover his modesty. Peter’s still standing there, staring at him like he can’t believe his eyes.

    “Well, it was lovely seeing you - you’re gorgeous, BTW, like, it’s kind of offensive how pretty you are - but I think I left the oven on, so I should, you know… go. And never inflict myself on you again,” Wade’s not sure he can handle the disgust that will inevitably follow when the shock wears off.

    “You’re naked,” Peter points out, breathlessly.

    “Well. Yeah,” Wade’s not sure why this is a revelation. “The clothes aren’t actually a part of me - they don’t follow me back out of the abyss, darlin’.” He whips up the blanket and tries to arrange it to cover maximum skin.

    “You can’t go out like that!” Wade cringes. The disgust is beginning, he guesses. Not that he can blame the kid. He looks like a blobfish had an affair with a car crash - even after a full regeneration.

    “Yeah - sorry you had to see it. I know it’s no barrel of laughs.” He’d had some vague hope that Spidey would be different somehow, more relaxed, or less scathing, or something - anything.

    “What? No! No, that’s not what I meant,” Peter rushes forward, hurrying over to lay a hand on Wade’s wrist. “I mean you could get arrested for public indecency,” he tugs gently at the captive wrist, looking so damnably earnest that Wade’s suddenly worried that this is one of his more elaborate hallucinations.

    [Strange though it may be, this is actually happening.] White says, casual as anything.

    Wade looks at the hand on his wrist, follows it along Spidey’s arm, up to his shoulder, over his slender neck, to the wide, glittering eyes. He’s always had it bad for Spidey. That ass. That sass. And now - shit - those _eyes_. He’s got it so bad he kind of wants to cry.

    “Just… I can lend you some things?” Wade stares down at the younger man. Peter's brow is pinched, his mouth pulled into a little frown of concern. He sounds so sincere, and so worried, and just a little plaintive. Wade really, really wants to tell him how cute he is, maybe tell him again that he’s obscenely handsome, that he loves him more than he loves Death, and he wants to cuddle him senseless, and fuck him breathless, and...

    “You don’t have to touch me,” he says instead.

    “Oh,” Peter’s hand drops to his side. “I’m sorry, I -” he shakes his head, “I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I’ll just… I’ll go get you some sweats.” He looks _hurt_. And Wade wants to kiss it better. “I don't mind touching you; I keep telling you that.” Peter tosses out as he turns away, completely unaware of how earth-shattering that statement is for Wade every single time he hears it.

    He follows after Peter when the boy begins to shuffle over to the dresser. Wade wants to kiss _lots_ of things better, watching his spandex-clad idol lean over to rummage through a drawer, his pert little ass swaying enticingly.

    “No need to apologize,” Wade offers. He hadn’t meant to hurt the little spider’s feelings. He just couldn’t really grasp the notion that someone would _want_ to touch him, despite Spidey's insistence that he does. Someone human, anyway. And Spidey is so achingly human, the skin of his neck thrumming with his pulse as he glances back at Wade.

    “I didn’t mean to touch you without asking,” he turns to face the chest of drawers. “I know your skin hurts you,” he opens another, seemingly at random. “I just didn’t want you running away.” Peter sticks his hand in the drawer, shuffling things around without paying them any mind. “You always run away,” he snaps the drawer shut with more force than necessary, then bends down to open another. “You always flirt, and you always run away, and you were gone for three weeks this time,” Peter sighs, leaning down further still.

    “Spidey,” Wade begins, hypnotized.

    “Peter,” the younger man interjects, his hands still down on the drawer, turning to look over his shoulder like he was ripped out of the pages of Blue magazine. Wade rearranges the blanket a little bit, swallowing thickly at the display. Peter snags something out of the drawer, turning to face Wade and looking up from under his lashes. He leans back against the dresser, keeping the clothing out of Wade’s reach. “Nice to meet you,” he smiles. Wade’s knees threaten to abandon ship.

    “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Wade grinds out by sheer force of will. He holds his hand out expectantly, unwilling or unable to move forward. Peter smirks softly, shaking the sweats in a blatant invitation for Wade to come to him.

    Of course, Wade goes to him.

    He would walk through hellfire for Peter if the lovely creature simply asked. Peter holds the clothes back, luring Wade closer still. He feels like he’s being reeled in by the little spider, closer, closer, closer, until the webs wrap him up and keep him immobile, nearly chest to chest with the tiny arachnid. Peter tilts his chin up, eyes smouldering. Wade grabs at the sweats, uncoordinated in the face of this new development.

    “Ah ah,” Peter’s pillowy lips open around the reprimand and Wade feels the desperate need to stab himself to get a reign on his hormones. Sometimes regenerations resulted in unfortunate boners, and he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t get his head on straight post-haste he's going to wind up sword-fighting with an unarmed opponent. “There’s a toll,” Peter breathes.

     _This is it._  Wade thinks vaguely. This is where the spider sinks his needle fangs into Wade’s yielding flesh, and is slowly devoured. _Much better way to go than being turned into a fine, pink mist,_ floats lazily through his muddled mind.

    “What’s the cost, ferryman?” Wade’s crossed the River Styx no few times, and he’s pretty sure that Styx was never so comely, beautiful though she may be.

    “A kiss,” Peter smiles, “if you’d be so kind,” he parts his lips ever-so-slightly in an invitation, a soft, encouraging sound slipping out. Wade groans softly. Kissing he can do. He can do whatever this nymph wants. Whenever he wants. He tilts his head down, brushing his scarred lips over Peter’s.

    Peter’s lips are, indeed, pillowy, a bit chapped from being chewed, his breath slightly stale from the lateness of the hour. The timid touch of teeth against Wade’s lower lip punches his breath from his lungs, and he falls into the kiss like a man starved.

    He feasts on Peter’s lips, inhaling the little sighs and whimpers that escape Peter’s mouth. Licking his way in, heedless of the taste of sleep, ravishing every curve, plane, and texture he can reach. He catches Peter closer to him, one hand pressing against razor-sharp scapula, the other clawing into the thick flesh of Peter’s delectable ass. He grinds forward, fully erect, smearing precome all over the forgotten blanket, rutting against Peter’s taut stomach. He swallows down a whimper, pulling back just enough to glance slyly down at the man so securely wrapped in his embrace.

    “Is my fare paid, nymph?” Wade relishes the look of dazed bliss splashed across Peter’s face like red wine on a white cloth.

    “No,” the word escapes as a moan, “perhaps we should continue the exchange on the bed?” He sounds quite delightful when he’s winded with arousal, Wade decides. And what better way to keep him sounding so than throwing him down on the bed and necking with him until neither of them are sure which way is up?

    “As you command,” Wade smirks, lurching sideways to stumble toward the little bed, the sweats forgotten somewhere on the floor. It certainly isn’t elegant, neither of them willing to part mouths long enough to aim properly, or coordinate limbs. They collapse onto the bed in a tangle, hands everywhere as Wade desperately tries to alleviate Peter of his excess of clothes, and Peter very nearly shreds the little throw blanket in his frenzied bid to access every millimeter of skin on Wade’s body.

    “I command that you kiss me again,” Peter hisses between running his lips and tongue along Wade's shoulder in a manner that's succeeding in distracting him spectacularly. They meet in a flash of mouths as Wade finally manages to divest Peter of both boots and leggings.

    “Still too much clothes,” Wade complains against Peter's wet lips.

    “Then relieve me of them,” Peter orders pulling away slightly to give Wade room to work. “Strip me.” He looks utterly debauched and entirely too good. Wade reaches over, trailing fingertips along Peter's bare thighs to the hem of the top.

    “You always so demanding?” He doesn't mind - in fact, he's quite enjoying it. Hard to misinterpret anything when your partner is using dictates.

    “Hard not to when you respond so beautifully,” Peter opines, tilting his head back to glance down his cheeks at Wade's wanting eyes. “Strip me,” he bids again, positioning Wade's hands to pull the top off.

    Wade follows the order this time, peeling away the last article with reverence. Wade's got it so bad for Peter. The sass, the ass, the eyes, and sweet loving fuck, he's even got a perfect stomach, tight little nipples that Wade's going to gorge himself on until the little spider screams for mercy.

    “I've got it so bad for you,” he mumbles before driving in, licking a path from navel to a nipple and hunkering down to feast. Peter squeals, falling back on the small mountain of pillows at the top of the bed. Wade pins him with one hand, the other petting everywhere he can reach.

    “'s mutual,” Peter whines, wrapping his legs around Wade's thick torso, shamelessly rutting against the hard muscle. “Missed you,” he gasps as Wade sucks hard, scraping his teeth over the sensitive areola. Wade makes to pull back, intent on telling Peter that he misses him every moment they're apart, but his plan is thwarted as Peter's hands fly to keep him in place. “No stopping,” Peter's voice is breathy around the words, and Wade moans. The soft cry he gets in response is more than enough to have him switch sides and try again.

    Peter's thighs are trembling, and Wade's certain that his little spider is going to come apart any moment now. He grinds against the bed, sneaking his free hand down to give himself what he needs. He bites softly. Peter seizes up like he's being electrocuted, his thighs locking around Wade's chest with just slightly too much pressure. The gentle pain shoves Wade's orgasm through him mercilessly, and he bites down harder into the warm flesh of Peter's pect, groaning as stars flash behind his eyelids.

    They roll to their sides, Peter slipping his captive leg from under Wade's bulk. Peter's breathing is slowing, approaching sleep already.

    “So,” Wade begins - he feels like this is the sort of thing that should be Talked About.

    “Later.” Peter snaps. “Cuddle sleep now. Talk later. You stay of your free will, or I web you to bed: Your choice.” His eyes are closed from what Wade can see from his somewhat squished position, and he looks incredibly calm for threatening non-consensual bondage.

    “I love cuddling,” Wade settles on saying. “But I do like bondage, too,” he adds, just in case Peter needs that information at a later date.

    “Doing cuddle: Good. Now do sleep,” he's slurring, already fading out of consciousness. “Tie up later,” he mumbles before falling still. Wade nestles down, breathing in the scent of Peter's skin and smiling softly. There's definitely A Talk in his future, but there's also a good tying-up, so it's all good. He's places a tiny kiss against Peter's sternum, drifting off, himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Blue is an Australian magazine that features artfully unclothed men. 
> 
> I got the idea for this from a picture I saw on the internet of a recliner with an actual sign taped to it that said "free haunted chair ghost included (we hope)". So instead of - I dunno - writing a two thousand word paper on code implemention, I wrote nearly four thousand words worth of weird ass chairs and resultant emotional constipation.  
> And inflicted it on y'all.  
> Happy Christmas!
> 
> P.S: Edited for stylistics, removal of pronoun reduplication, and homonym confusion. Should be better, now. Mostly...


End file.
